


Bitter Rivals

by the_auxiliatrix



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, this is not a healthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 00:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_auxiliatrix/pseuds/the_auxiliatrix
Summary: It was the best of timesIt was the worst of timesI had to kill the new sheriff in townShe was gonna try to keep meYou go-go downYou go-go downYou are my bitter rivalBut I need you for survivalVictoria doesn't get along with the new girl.





	Bitter Rivals

**Author's Note:**

> sorry

Arcadia Bay is so _boring_.

Nothing here challenges you.

The photography program at Blackwell was supposed to be challenging.

Mark Jefferson was supposed to be teaching it.

That would have been challenging.

But he wasn't available this semester, and Mx. Dog is _not_ a close second.

Your classmates are boring, too.

That Kari girl might have been interesting, but you haven't seen her around in a few months.

You're pretty sure she got expelled.

At your old school, in Seattle, you had to fight to be on top.

It was exhilarating.

The plots, the politicking, the scheming, the backstabbing.

You never realized how much you'd miss it.

Being the Queen Bitch of Blackwell doesn't take any effort at all.

It's _so_ boring.

When the new girl shows up, you don't let yourself have any expectations.

She'll be just as boring as everyone else in this shithole town.

* * *

In an environment entirely devoid of surprises, any surprise is a good surprise, so you're not too proud to say that Rachel Amber pleasantly surprised you.

Well, you _are_ too proud to say it out loud, but inside your head, there's no one but yourself to use your insecurities against you.

You knew the instant you saw her that she'd be anything but boring.

She effortlessly flowed into your social circle, acting as if these complete strangers were lifelong friends. 

Some of them, you're convinced, actually do think that they've known her for much longer than they actually have.

She's so effortlessly beautiful and so effortlessly charming.

She has the whole school, the teachers included, eating out of her hands in just weeks.

It's infuriating.

Even the way she walks appears effortless, as if she's not a girl walking, but an ethereal being, gliding through the halls and across the campus.

She's everything you wish you could be.

You hate her.

You need to destroy her. 

School politics in Arcadia don't play by the same rules as in Seattle.

Whoever had the most money.

Whoever was the most feared.

Whoever knew how to best con the social hierarchy.

 _That's_ who was on top.

That was _you_.

You've lived in Arcadia Bay for too long.

You're out of practice and she's a natural.

Without a challenger vying for the throne, subjugation through fear worked perfectly well. 

But people actually like Rachel.

And in this backwater hellhole, genuine affection is more influential than fear. 

The same mentality that brought you to the top of the social ladder at Blackwell has now isolated you. 

She destroyed your social standing without even trying or meaning to.

You _hate_ her.

You _will_ destroy her.

Nobody can be that perfect all of the time.

She's a liar.

A manipulator.

She has to be.

She's playing the same game as you.

She's just better at hiding her motives.

It's the only explanation that makes sense.

If you could just expose her as a fraud, everyone would turn on her. 

But no one will listen to you.

No one will believe you. 

So you start spreading rumors.

Snide remarks and anonymous graffiti.

Former royalty, scorned and reduced to petty tricks.

Some are speculation about things that could turn out to be true.

Most are blatant lies, though.

You don't really care about what's true or not, as long as it works in your favor.

* * *

Your hatred of Rachel is bordering on obsessive.

She's all you talk about these days.

It's driving away the few friends you still have left.

You start drinking more.

At Vortex Club Parties.

Alone, in your room.

It hurts less that way.

It helps you forget.

It helps you forget how everyone left you.

It helps you forget that you've never had a _real_ friend in your life.

When you're drunk, you forgo passive-aggressive and skip right into aggressive.

You'd rather drive people away by choice than let them leave on their own.

Sometimes, you over do it.

Nothing says "Queen Bitch" like yesterday's eyeliner and incoherent ranting.

You become more physical in your feud against Rachel. 

You start pushing her, tripping her.

It's dark.

There's a lot of people.

Flashing lights.

Dancing.

She doesn't know it was you.

It could have been anyone.

It could have been _exactly_ one person.

She finds you a while later, coming out of a bathroom stall.

You know she's mad, but mostly you just can't wait to rinse the taste of vomit  
out of your mouth.

Rachel looks drunk.

More drunk than she usually gets at these things.

Not as drunk as you, but drunk.

She shoves you against the wall.

Dirty. Disgusting.

Just like you.

Rachel doesn't say anything.

You aren't sure that you could say anything if you tried.

She just stares at you.

And then she hits you.

Hard.

Open palm, across your face.

You can't say you didn't deserve it.

She hits you again.

And again.

And then.

She kisses you.

It's not like the boys you've kissed.

Transactional. Meaningless.

It's not even like the other girls you've kissed.

Nervous experiments fueled by boxed wine. Straight girls teasing you with something you could never actually have.

You always thought that kissing Rachel would be soft and gentle.

Like stepping into a warm summer rain.

It's more like getting hit by a truck, though.

Her whole body crashes into yours, pinning you against the wall.

Her fingers grabbing at your short hair, nails digging into your scalp.

Her knee between your legs, grinding upwards.

And then, as quickly as it started.

It's over.

You're alone.

Sitting on the disgusting bathroom floor.

At least, when you're alone, there's no one to see you cry.

* * *

Sitting on the bathroom floor brought you to a revelation.

You spend too much time thinking about that bitch.

You start taking care of yourself again.

You start drinking less.

Still a lot.

But less.

Your friends are willing to spend time with you again.

Your feud with Rachel becomes less obsessive and more like a friendly rivalry.

Well, not _friendly_ , but still.

You aren't a joke anymore.

People start fearing you again.

You get some of your power back.

Every time you see Rachel, she _winks_ at you.

You think she's enjoying this new rivalry much more than the old one.

So are you.

* * *

Your rivalry comes to a head with the elections for class president.

Weeks of bitter campaigning have brought out some of your previous, less savory tactics.

You're better at it now, though.

More discreet.

Subtle.

The graffiti's not in your handwriting.

The rumors can't be traced back to you.

But, again, you take it too far.

The Presidential Debate is tonight, in the Gym.

You've thoroughly prepared, but Rachel is a decidedly better "people-person".

She'll win.

Most of the students will already be in the gym.

You should have been there an hour ago, but.

You like to make an Entrance.

You're walking to the school gym, when you see an opportunity.

To tip the scales in your favor.

To _fucking win_.

Rachel's coming up behind you on her skateboard.

You aren't the only one who likes to make an Entrance.

She's going fast.

And then.

As she's about to pass you.

She's in the grass.

Her board keeps going, but she's in the grass.

Nobody was around.

Nobody could prove that you pushed her.

Nobody could prove that.

Rachel arrives to the debate 10 minutes after you.

Five minutes after you were supposed to start.

It's not a good look.

You win the debate.

When you return to your room that night, Rachel is waiting for you.

Again, she hits you.

In the face.

In the stomach.

And, again, she kisses you.

But this time.

She doesn't stop.

* * *

Rachel fucks the same way she kisses.

Hard.

Fast.

You're in heaven.

The night after she won the election was particularly fun.

You really wanted to win.

But losing was worth it.

You've heard of hate sex.

Make-up sex.

Break-up sex.

You've never heard of gloat-sex before, though.

You like it quite a lot.

* * *

The rest of the school year passes by quickly.

Being Rachel's Vice President has it's challenges.

It also has it's unique benefits.

You're almost disappointed when you have to return to Seattle for the summer.

* * *

After your exciting year at Blackwell, summer in Seattle seems to drag on forever.

After Rachel, none of your old friends are challenging anymore.

You're actually looking forward to returning to school.

You've heard that Mark Jefferson will be teaching Photography this year.

You're going to win the Presidential Election this year.

You can't wait.

* * *

Your rivalry with Rachel picks up exactly where it left off.

Campaigning starts on the first day of school.

But, after a few weeks.

Rachel stops.

She stops campaigning.

She stops coming over at night.

And then.

She stops going to class.

You haven't seen her in a few weeks.

Part of you misses her.

She was the closest thing you hand to a real friend.

To a girlfriend.

But mostly.

You're just bored.


End file.
